


A Captain's Pleasure

by JungleKitty



Series: Duty, Pleasure, and Privilege [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JungleKitty/pseuds/JungleKitty
Summary: Another time-honored Starfleet tradition, to welcome the Captain aboard.
Series: Duty, Pleasure, and Privilege [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577116
Kudos: 4





	A Captain's Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> (c) 1999 Jungle Kitty. Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
> 
> This is the second story of the "Duty, Pleasure and Privilege" trilogy. It was inspired by Robin who identified that padd that a beautiful yeoman is always bringing Kirk for his signature. It's the Spanking List.

The captain growled as he punched the Delete button with his index finger.

The nerve! Why, it was practically sedition! At the very least, it showed an appalling lack of sensitivity.

He hoped that the other recipients would delete the message as quickly as he had, if only out of pity for the ignorant fools who had sent it. If any of them forwarded it to Starfleet Command, those two sniveling whiners would quickly find themselves stripped of rank and command. What could they have been thinking of?

A petition requesting the elimination of the Captain's Discipline.

Why the hell did they think people wanted to captain a starship? The responsibility? The paperwork? The pay? Hell, you could have all that back on earth *and* wear clothes that fit properly.

There was only one reason to shoulder such a burden. Because it carried with it the exquisite pleasure of the Captain's Discipline.

And in five minutes, James T. Kirk, youngest captain in the Fleet, the hero of Gioghe, so new to his command that he was surprised every time he noticed the additional braid on his sleeve... In exactly five minutes, he would step into his place as the latest in a long line of Starfleet captains.

The Captain's Discipline was his right. He had earned it. And he intended to enjoy it.

Ever since he'd first set foot on the bridge of the Enterprise, he had studied the officers with as much discretion as his eagerness would allow. To his delight, none of them looked like they would flinch in the line of duty. And some of them--ah!--some of them studied him back.

Still, he couldn't help worrying about the ones who had barely met his eyes after 0900 hours that morning. At 0900, the random computer selection had been made. At 0900, the chosen officer had been notified. At 0900, the computer had informed Kirk that the rite would take place in his quarters at 1900 hours.

He glanced at the chron. 1856 hours. Four minutes until his initiation into the monthly ritual of the Captain's Discipline. God and Starfleet willing, the first of many such rituals.

He moved to the wall safe and entered the combination, his cock already stirring in anticipation. One by one, he removed the contents of the safe and held each briefly.

The wooden switch, slender and smooth. A precision instrument, one capable of striking with keen accuracy. He swung it in the air and heard the whispered promise of its sleek design.

The flog, with its many tiny whips, their ends adorned by sharp knots. Knots whose scattershot prickle would be felt long after the flog was returned to its resting place.

And the paddle.

He had purchased it within six hours of receiving his promotion and had not even allowed himself to look at it since. But he had thought about it. Yes, he had thought about it. He had even dreamed about it once or twice.

He picked it up reverently and rested it against his cheek. It felt cool--or was he fevered with excitement? No matter. If this, the pride of his collection, were selected as the method of discipline, it would soon be warmed. As would the flesh it would touch.

It briefly stuck to his face, and, for a moment, he entertained the fanciful notion that the tool was as hungry to begin the work as he was.

"Wait," he murmured, as much to the paddle as to himself.

He smiled as he ran his fingers along the pattern carved into the taut leather surface. The work of a true craftsman--no, an artist. No workman could have made something that would so stir the heart of a warrior. No laborer could have tuned his tools to such a fine intensity that their creation would resonate with the soul of a commander. None but an artist would have adorned his masterpiece with brightest gold. The color of the sun under which Kirk had been born. The color of the command to which he had risen. The color that shone in stark contrast to the black leather, displaying the elegant simplicity of the Starfleet insignia.

And on the other side...

Kirk turned the paddle over and ran his hand over its surface, shivering as his palm caressed the excruciatingly small studs that peppered the sleek ebony leather. Their touch, too, would be more than remembered by the skin it blessed, although their sharpness stopped just short of puncturing. He tipped the instrument, and his pulse quickened as the tiny stones caught the light and sparkled like starfire.

Strong, proud, and breathtakingly beautiful, like the stirring history it represented.

Would its splendor be appreciated?

Would it cry out that it *must* be used, at least this time, the first time?

Would it be wielded by a hand worthy of it?

As he carried the three implements to his desk and laid them out in a neat line, he tried to imagine such a hand. And he realized that there were quite a few qualities he didn't want in his first Disciplinary Officer.

Not someone who was intimidated by Kirk's accomplishments. Not someone who had never done this before. Not someone who had any qualms about such a duty. Not someone who would be timid, gentle, or lax in the application.

And above all, not Gary Mitchell.

Gary was his best friend and Kirk loved him like a brother, but he would make a mockery of the whole ceremony.

Kirk could picture it. Gary would saunter in--probably a few minutes late--and say breezily, "Take off the blindfold, Jim. It's me." He wouldn't even use the voice distortion setting on the universal translator to hide his identity. He'd sneer at the paddle, the switch, and the flog, if he even bothered to notice them. He'd laugh and slap his captain's butt, only once, and lightly at that. Then he'd flop into a chair and say mockingly, "Was it good for you, too?"

Kirk knew he would remember his first time for the rest of his life, and he entreated the gods of the galaxy to grant him a Disciplinary Officer who wouldn't besmirch the ritual that was at the very heart of Starfleet.

The door chime sounded. Kirk returned to the wall safe and removed one last item. Then, moving to the center of the room, he pulled the soft blindfold down over his eyes and felt his cock rise to its fullest as he said, "Come."

***

It wasn't Gary Mitchell.

Kirk knew that from the instant the doors opened and he heard quick, light footfalls that were neither heavy enough nor firm enough to be Gary's. But even if the person had somehow managed to mimic Mitchell's stride, Kirk would have known. Years earlier, he'd seen his friend participate in an Academy entertainment, and he knew there was one thing in the universe his talented friend could not imitate.

A woman.

The air had changed in the unmistakable way it always did in the presence of a desirable female. Kirk remembered how stunned he'd been when he'd learned that most men lacked this awareness. But it had never failed him or fooled him.

He didn't need to see her. He didn't need to hear her voice. He didn't need to touch the smooth skin of her face. The straining steel of his cock against his trousers told him everything he needed to know. His first Disciplinary Officer was female. And a damned attractive one, at that.

***

"If you would drop your pants, please, Captain."

The universal translator distorted her voice, rendering it sexless, but not colorless. There was a hint of amusement there. There was also a harshness, but Kirk couldn't tell if it had been put there by the device or the woman herself.

"Of course," he replied as he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down, but not too quickly or too eagerly. He knew that any ceremony, if rushed, was diminished. He hoped she understood that. Nor did he let them down too slowly. After all, he wasn't a stripper, slyly teasing his audience. He hoped she appreciated that, too.

When his ass was exposed, he waited. He heard her slowly walk around him. And when she was directly in front of him, she stopped. He almost breathed a sigh of relief. Anyone brazen enough to openly stare at her CO's erection wasn't going to back away from the duty of the Disciplinary Officer.

She was on the move again, quickly completing the rest of the circle. And then she was strode to the other side of the room and stopped. At the desk? Almost certainly.

Kirk's heart thundered, as he imagined his anonymous companion. Medium height perhaps. Slender yet voluptuous. Soft chestnut hair that hung loosely about her shoulders, a sharp contrast to her taut muscles. Long, shapely legs that could move swiftly if they needed to, or wrap themselves slowly around a man if they wanted to. And eyes as green as emeralds, flashing with amber desire.

Something inside whispered that that description did not fit any female officer aboard the Enterprise.

*But perhaps that's the point of the blindfold.*

A high-pitched hssst, almost a whine, shattered the silence. The switch. She was cutting the air with the switch. Why had she chosen it? Did she feel a kinship with its slender elegance? Did she enjoy the thought of the long stripes it would paint across his cheeks?

He heard her set it down. And then another sound crept through the breathless quiet. The seductive, clicking swish of the multi-stringed flog flicking the desk.

Chink! Chink!

He felt the moisture gathering at the tip of his cock as the sound taunted his ears, as the knots would taunt his flesh.

CHINK!

He heard a soft exhalation in the echo of the sharp patter of the flog. Did she respond to that sound, so similar to wire brushes against a snare drum? Did she wish to command an army of tiny tormentors, driving a hundred stinging blows with each snap of her wrist?

The gentle drumming of the knots as they came to rest on the desk told him that she had not yet made her decision.

Was she picking up the paddle? Was she studying the delicate inlay of the insignia? Was she pressing the studs against her fingertips? Was she--

tap tap tap tap

She was patting the paddle against the flat of her palm, teasing him with gentle applause.

tap tap tap

The enticing cadence was broken by a loud swoosh as the paddle sheared the air with the sweep of a winged demon.

And then silence.

A silence in which Kirk prayed that the beauty and power of the instrument would move her. That the weighty significance of the starscape and the insignia would sway her. That she would understand that nothing would satisfy this moment except the deep, midnight pleasure only the paddle could grant.

For he was forbidden to speak.

By setting out all three implements, he had indicated that any would be acceptable. But to express a preference, to have presented only one would have been shameful. Just as each of his officers was free to make a recommendation in a briefing, the captain was duty-bound to allow freedom of choice in the Discipline. And just as the final decision rested with the captain in all other situations, the ultimate choice here was hers. He would not shame them both by arguing or pleading.

And she could still reject them all and use her hand.

"If you would assume the position, sir."

Her electronically enhanced voice crackled across his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck snapped to attention as he bent over and rested his trembling hands on his knees.

She hadn't set the paddle down.

Slow, lazy footfalls approaching. One. Two. Three. Four. She was standing next to him.

He gasped as the cool leather brushed his ass. A slow, circular motion warmed his flesh like gentle breath on barely glowing embers. Embers that wanted to roar into a conflagration that would incinerate them both.

Over and over, the paddle moved across his ass, roving leisurely along the curve of each cheek. The seductive touch beckoned to him, drawing him deeper into a world of aching need. The wanting twisted his insides, made the air too heavy to breathe, painted colors against the blindfold, and still the unbearably tender caresses went on.

And there was nothing he could do to command the Discipline. Despite the pulsing of his cock, despite the moan barely held in check, despite the entreating attitude of his ass... The power was hers. The action was hers. The paddle was hers.

And, at last, it was lifted. A last moment to savor what was to come, a fervent prayer to be bound to his ship by this sacrament, a silent plea to deflower his unpunished flesh.

At the moment the paddle claimed his ass, time slowed to a stately crawl, allowing him an eternity in which to revel in sensation. His head snapped up sharply--so sharply that he knew his neck would be stiff later--but it felt as if he had slowly turned his face heavenward. He knew the pain before he felt it, and when he felt it, it drove the breath from his lungs. It was sharp and slow to fade, but it was felt at first by only the top layer of his skin. And then the searing heat moved deeper into his flesh, into his muscles, into his soul. It radiated outward and set his balls tingling. As a thousand electrified tongues licked at his thighs, he realized that the most immediate sensation had diminished and now an even, heavy heat was spreading throughout his body. A unceasing heat that marched to the pounding of his heart.

One blow. She had done all that with one blow.

TWO!

The sharp crack broke the spell, and the heat moved swiftly now, filling his body and pushing a gasped yelp up through his throat, to his lips, and out into the air. And before he could truly feel the shame of having cried out--

THREE!

The same cheek, where the flames had only begun to spread. That was why it felt so different, because it came so quickly after the previous blow, because it whipped the freshly lit fire into a frenzy of dark pleasure, because...

Because she had turned the paddle, and now, in the wake of the stroke, he felt the sharp bite of the studs. He hung his head and shook as the fine-cut gems poked holes in the almost comforting evenness of the leather's aftermath. Stinging wasps, sharp needles, pointed foils pricked and pierced and rent the darkness with blinding, white-hot light.

Aware that the thought was irrational, but feeling nonetheless that his throbbing cock offered a stronger support than his quaking legs, he wrapped one fist around it and held on for dear life.

FOUR!

And now the studs bore into the other cheek. He breathed in short huffs, shallow breaths that drove him deeper into the rapture. Stinging, burning, smarting, aching... There were no words to describe the spectrum of swirling agony and tumbling bliss.

Yes, there was a word. Red. Red beyond what could be seen. He felt the heat of melting rubies, tasted the bitter spice of peppers, heard the cry of the blood ravens of Rigel. He knew red. He lived red. And she--oh, she was the maker of red desire, the giver of red pleasure, the wielder of red power.

She poured out the scarlet nectar of submission, brought vermilion dreams to vibrant life, granted peace through crimson-sheathed surrender.

She was the Red Queen.

FIVE!

And she now decreed that the universe must be shattered, for red was too pale, too fragile, too weak. There was another color, deeper, truer, and more complete than red.

Black.

For black is nothing and absorbs all. And Kirk was nothing, nothing but wanting. He was drowning in his own emptiness, hurtling through a never-ending void, until suddenly he was filled with all the colors, and they were embraced by the ebony of his desire.

He squeezed his eyes shut until tears ran, clutched his cock until his balls all but crawled up into his body, clenched his muscles until they threatened to tear apart. Because whatever was filling his nothingness must not be allowed to escape.

SIX!

But escape it did, and on that explosive release, as his cum shot across the room, as he tumbled to his knees, as a roar of ecstasy tore through his throat, he shattered into a thousand sharp pieces that flew before his eyes in a shimmer of falling stars.

***

It took him some time to recognize a sensation that seemed irrevocably foreign, almost unknowable.

Cool. The floor was cool to his burning skin. He rolled over and suppressed a moan as a smooth, hard surface that did not bring heat touched his ass.

He could not have said how long he lay there, conscious of nothing beyond that place, that moment, that feeling.

But at last a sound summoned his attention. A sound that was also barely recognizable. It was harsh and persistent, yet there was beauty in its regularity, in what had caused it, and in what it promised for the future. It was his own shameless panting.

James T. Kirk. Captain of the Enterprise. Disciplined.

He allowed himself one more moment to savor this, his first time, knowing that he would replay it endlessly, yet never recapture its essence. Then he rolled again and pushed up from the floor, fighting the slippage of his sweat-soaked hands. As he struggled to his feet, he felt a hand under his arm, supporting him until he had steadied himself.

"Thank you, Captain," said a metallic voice.

But now she was standing very close, now he heard something beyond the distortion, now he smelled a warm, earthy scent.

Now he knew who she was.

He turned toward her and almost--almost reached for the blindfold. But that, too, must be her choice.

She moved away in a soft breath of air, and after the doors hissed twice--open! close!--Kirk removed the blindfold, blinked in the bright light, and smiled with deep satisfaction as he was consumed by one thought and one thought only.

Come hell or high water, Lieutenant Uhura was going to find herself at the top of the spanking list.


End file.
